31. Nyssa #2
“This is where we imbue our powers into the blade.”
I straightened, listening intently. This was the most important part, the part Hephaestus had warned us about.
“And how exactly do we do that?” Caelus ventured.
“Touch the steel. See how it’s hot, but not enough to burn your skin?”
We both nodded.
“Good. Grasp the blade firmly right above its hilt. Reach inwards to wherever your power stems from. For me, it’s my hands, so I don’t have to stretch it far.”
We watched as Arch placed his palm on his half-forged sword. I didn’t know exactly what power the god possessed, but I watched it flow out — a pale golden colour travelling to the tip of his weapon. Once the blade was iridescent, he removed his hand and plunged the metal back into the forge.
“Now you try.”
I exchanged a nervous glance with Caelus. We both placed our palms on the warm steel. I closed my eyes, concentrating on the source of my power. It came from somewhere deep within, entangled within my soul.
Slowly, I coaxed the shadows out of my body and into the weapon, feeling the strain of resistance. It was almost as if they were aware that this was a permanent cleaving, and they didn’t like it at all.
I looked down, noting the pooling of darkness around my palm, but unlike Arch’s smooth glow, my power oozed unevenly.
It’s okay.
I spoke to my power as though it were a living entity.
You’re not leaving me for good — just becoming more useful. Something that might save my life.
I squeezed the blade a little tighter, feeling its rough edge cut into my palm. The shadows flowed freely now, coaxed by my reassurances, pulsing with an eerie darkness.
I lifted the weapon and placed it gently within the fires of the forge. A sizzling hiss followed as flames burned a wealth of glistening blood from its surface.
Startled, I turned my hand over. A deep gash marred the skin, golden ichor dripping steadily onto the stone floor.
A lightning-scarred hand grasped my fingers tenderly, with a gentleness belying the strength I knew he was capable of.
Caelus took one look at the wound and wrenched his shirt from his brown leather breeches, tearing a strip of linen from the hem.
He wrapped my bleeding hand without hesitation, as if it were no inconvenience to him at all.
It felt like fate pressed pause — we were stuck in this endless moment between tasks.
Neither of us could look away. He was loath to let go of my fingers.
That gentle tugging inside my chest pulled again, and I felt my brows draw together just as Caelus’ eyes flashed as brilliant and white as a lightning strike.
He quickly blinked and looked away, finally releasing my hand with a sharp flare of his fingers.
Almost like he had to force his muscles to relent.
A throat cleared, jolting us out of that paused moment, and I spun to face an impassive Archimedes. He leaned against his work station, arms crossed casually over his chest. There was no doubt in my mind he’d witnessed the entire exchange.
He did, Velira confirmed, cracking open one golden eye.
Great. The whole council will know by morning.
Hmmm, she hummed. I do not think so, Vel replied quietly, eyeing the small red fox curling its tail around Arch’s left boot. The fox says he will not tell.
Then she promptly closed her eye and fell back to sleep.
Arch said nothing. Just shook his head and moved onto the next step.
“Now, we quench the blade.”
He picked up the tongs, placed his blade back into the forge, then swiftly pulled it out and tossed it into a bucket of water.
I scrambled to copy him, feeling Caelus do the same behind me.
Three blades hissed as they hit the icy water, steam billowing out in hot clouds. In the cover of it, Arch leaned close.
“I don’t know what that was, or what you think you two are doing, but don’t be so bold about it,” he murmured. “Do you have any idea the war your parents would wage if they found out?”
It was a valid warning. Hera would rather see me dead than tainting the arms of her son. And truthfully, I didn’t even know what this was. Or what either of us wanted from it. No point inciting violence over something that didn’t even exist.
“It’s nothing,” I murmured.
“What next?” Caelus asked with a frown, standing so close his arm brushed against my own, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
Archimedes pursed his lips, considering. “Now we temper the steel. Then we grind the edges and sharpen them so they’re ready to slice into any foe.” He grinned savagely as he showed us the techniques.
He reached under his station to retrieve a rolled-up leather satchel. Arch laid it out, revealing a series of oddly shaped, wickedly sharp tools.
“Pass me your weapon, Nyssa.”
I handed it over. He picked up a fine-tipped tool and began gliding it across the flat side of the blade.
Caelus and I watched intently as shapes began to appear, etched by the gifted hands of someone I had poorly misjudged as little as a few hours ago.
Whorls of shadows, fluid and serpentine flowed down the blade, perfectly capturing the form of the power I wielded.
It was beautiful.
And I felt completely undeserving.
“Arch—”
“Do you have a name picked out?”
“A name?” I stuttered.
“Yes. Names hold power. A good name makes a weapon stronger.”
I rubbed the surface of the orb hanging around my neck without thinking.
Then it struck me.
“Nightbreaker,” I told him, my tone laced with certainty.
Arch simply nodded once and carved the word near the hilt in an elegant script. When he was done, he handed it back hilt-first, inclining his head slightly.
“A weapon fit for a Queen.”
I rolled my eyes, grinning.
“You’re on your own,” he said to Caelus, who frowned but picked up an etching tool and started carving into his own blade.
“The next step is crafting the hilt. There are bags of leather over by the door.” Arch began to walk away, but I lurched forward to grab his forearm. I whispered my request into his ear.
Surprisingly, he agreed to help with no questions asked.
Twenty minutes later, I decided to forego the forge’s stores of leather in favour something more personal. Hephaestus had said to imbue the weapon with ourselves , and I intended to do just that.
Using a dagger of shadow, I hacked at the base of my black, leather cuirass. When a section had been removed I stretched it out, cutting away the uneven edges, then began winding it tightly around the hilt of my newly forged sword.
It was perfect.
As I held Nightbreaker, twirling and testing its weight, the sword hummed and flickered. Shadows coiled along the blade and wrapped around my fingers at its hilt.
With little more than a thought, the modified hilt flashed brightly. Arch smirked as the gem woven into it sparked again. Lightning flashed in its depths.
Caelus’ eyes shot to the orb, then to the absence of it around my neck. His brows shot up. I flashed my teeth in a feral grin.
Let Ares test me now.
The god of war and violence posed upon a freshly built stage in the familiar training arena, one hand resting on the podium. Hephaestus stood beside him, snickering at the champions before them in their various states of disarray.
Of the nine, only Arch and Caelus remained unscathed. The rest of us were sporting bandages covering an assortment of blisters, welts, and cuts.
Aros twirled a gleaming double-headed axe. A surprise, apparently, given the look on his spear-wielding father’s face.
“She’s pretty, no?” Aros grinned, pointedly ignoring Ares’ narrowed brows.
“Suits you. Does she have a name?” I asked.
“Flameless.” His cheeks turned slightly pink at the admission. An insatiable curiosity prowled to life in my chest.
“ Darling , I’m awfully curious… How does the weapon of a flame-wielding god of war end up with a name like Flameless?” I tapped a finger against my lip, waiting.
Our conversation drew amused looks from the other champions. Aros saw all of the grinning faces and scowled half-heartedly.
“Something went a little awry during the imbuing part,” he muttered sheepishly. “Only a tiny portion of power transferred. So now, the only flames this axe is capable of producing are these.”
Aros tipped the head of his weapon toward me, where a tiny flame burst to life. “Barely enough to light a Furies-damned candle.”
Laughter burst free, unbidden and unstoppable.
It broke like floodwaters crashing through a dam.
And, like a flood, I was powerless to stop it.
Hilarity felt like a bubble stuck in my chest trying to escape out of my mouth.
I was far from the only one — the admission cost even Hephaestus his stoicism.
Not even Ares’ aggressive clearing of his throat, demanding our attention, was enough to break the spell until it had run its course.
“Now then!” the war god barked. “If you’re all quite done laughing at my disappointment of a son, we have a trial to get back to!”
My laughter ceased immediately, cut short by fury. I narrowed my eyes, livid on behalf of said son. Aros grabbed my forearm, a silent warning not to intervene.
Fuck that.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, oh great god of war,” I drawled, cocking my head to the side. “But did you not select your son as your champion?”
“I did. How is that relevant?” Ares snapped.
“Could you not have entered the trials yourself?”
“All were given the opportunity to either participate or enter a champion in their stead, as you well know, daughter of Hades ,” he growled.
“Which is precisely my point,” I seethed. “You selected Aros to take your place on this battlefield. You chose your own blood to cop the blows intended for you. You did not find him a disappointment then — so why now?”
“Because he has deigned to sully himself with the likes of you ,” the god spat. I felt, more than saw, Aros and Caelus shift on either side of me, mirroring each other’s defensive stance.
“Aros sullies himself with nothing,” I shot back. “The shame is yours. Stepping back to let your son take the blame if the crown does not select you in the end, is a coward’s choice.”
His eyes bugged, face darkening.
“You think you can win instead?” Ares laughed, launching himself off the platform. He prowled towards me and jabbed a meaty finger into my sternum. Velira snapped at it, her tiny, jagged teeth latching onto his digit, drawing blood.
“You will pay for that, demon,” Ares seethed.
He ripped the bronze war helmet off his head and flipped it over, retrieving a jingling pouch from a hidden pocket in his armour. He upended the bag, revealing bronze coins, each marked with a symbol, not unlike the medallions Athena had used in her trial.
“Each of these tokens represents one of you,” he bellowed to the champions, tipping the handful of coins into his helmet.
“I will withdraw two names and they shall face each other in combat. The winner shall progress through to the next trial. The loser will join the other eliminated champions on the sidelines.”
“How is a winner determined?” Caelus asked, his voice deep and clear.
“The usual way,” Ares said, grinning with malice. “By death or surrender.”
He turned to me, baring his teeth. “And since we’ve got an odd number, one of you will fight an unnamed opponent.”
He plucked a coin from the helmet and tucked it back into the pouch, a sense of foreboding turning my stomach to lead.
If I had to wager, I’d say that was my token, I grumbled to Velira who snarled her agreement.
Ares drew the first coin.
“Tychon, son of Hermes,” he announced, withdrawing a second and glancing at the symbol engraved on top. “Will face Archimedes, son of Hephaestus.”
Ares dropped the coins into the dirt, then retrieved another.
“Aphrodite, goddess of love, faces…” he paused, swirling his bleeding fingers through the helmet dramatically. “Our gilded bastard — Apollo, god of the sun.”
I winced. Aph possessed no combat skills — but hopefully, Apollo would go easy on her.
Hopefully.
Caelus visibly prickled, until Aros leaned in, speaking just loud enough for the two of us to hear.
“Leave it. God of war remember? He thrives on dissent, so don’t give it to him.”
“But Apollo?—”
“Can handle himself.”
The coins joined their brethren on the ground with a metallic clang. Ares plucked out a fifth and sixth coin.
“Athena, goddess of warfare and wisdom, will battle…” a hum of surprised delight escaped before he finished, “My own son and champion, Aros.”
Shit. I couldn’t predict the winner of that match. Both gods possessed an enhanced level of knowledge and skill in battle, not to mention power.
That left Caelus, Leander, and me. And I desperately didn’t want to have to fight the storm-wielder. I didn’t want to be the reason he failed. I didn’t think I could stomach actually hurting him.
Because I would win against either of them — my father and Charon had made sure of that.
“Which leaves…” He flipped his helmet right side up, catching the final two coins. “Caelus, son of Zeus, to face…”
Not me. Not me.
Ares drew out the tension like an over-tuned lyre string, eyeing us both malevolently.
“…Leander, son of Poseidon.”
I sagged with relief. I wouldn’t have to fight Caelus. And he could take Leander. In fact, I’d wager he was itching to avenge the mortal soldiers just as fiercely as I was.
“Who do I face?” I asked.
The Primal smirked.
“You’ll see.”
He spun to address the group. “You have one hour to prepare, then return to the arena for your ninth trial.”